


Burn All The Calendars

by thepointoftheneedle



Series: Recognition [4]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27404524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepointoftheneedle/pseuds/thepointoftheneedle
Summary: This is the next instalment in the Recognition series but it can be read as a one shot if you wish.  In each instalment Betty and Jug have a disagreement but they always work it out.When she stepped through the door the apartment smelled of garlic and basil and she breathed it in deeply.  She found him in the kitchen, making the salsa verde, the fish waiting to be pan fried, vegetables prepared for the steamer.  He was in his usual writing attire, sweatpants low on his hips, bare feet, an untucked t shirt.  She might hate and fear what the gym meant but she liked what it achieved.  He was lithe and muscular, smooth skin over lean limbs, his shoulders broader that they had been, his belly harder.  She ran a hand over his chest and across his stomach, dipping her little finger just quarter of an inch into the waistband of the sweatpants.  He glanced at her, a little surprised but not displeased.  “You’re very beautiful this evening,” she whispered and he chuckled.“You’re always beautiful,” he replied. She shrugged off her suit jacket and threw it towards a stool.  She kissed his neck in the way that meant that she wanted him and wasn’t keen to wait.  “Really?” he murmured.  “Before dinner?”
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Series: Recognition [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844407
Comments: 25
Kudos: 92
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	Burn All The Calendars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raymondebidochonlifechoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raymondebidochonlifechoices/gifts).



> This is gifted to raymondebidochonlifechoices because they have always been so kind about this series.
> 
> So the title is from a song by The Mountain Goats called Twin Human Highway Flares which has such a beautiful lyric. Here is a flavour of it: 
> 
> You turned to me and asked me if I'd always be your boy  
> As we drove across the river into western Illinois  
> And on the railroad bridge, half a mile of solid steel  
> Wheels were spitting out sparks, scraping at the rails  
> Wind in your hair, alright  
> Sunset spilling through the rear window  
> Your white t-shirt hugging your shoulders  
> Beaded with sweat  
> On the day that I become so forgetful  
> That all of this melts away  
> I will burn all the calendars that counted the years down  
> To such a worthless day  
> As we walked across the parking lot towards the motel office  
> We were walking with a benediction on us  
> 

Something was wrong. She had been trying not to let the vague suspicion coalesce into an actual thought, into the opening of an argument that would have her marshalling evidence to make a case against him but she was losing that battle with her own mind. They’d have a good evening, intimate, contented, but then, the next day at work, something would strike her as wrong, strange, out of character. What had he said last night? They'd been rewatching “Anatomy of a Murder" for the twentieth time and he'd wanted to know if she got bored being at home at the weekend. She'd said that she just liked being able to snuggle on the couch with him and it didn't much matter where the couch was. He'd smiled and kissed her and she hadn't thought much about it at the time. Now she wondered if he'd been trying to tell her that he was bored, that old movies in their pyjamas didn't do it for him anymore now he was a big shot writer who could go to parties and events every night if he wanted.

She didn't know exactly when things had gone off track. Everything had been great for months, like one of those montages in a romcom that show the audience how in love the couple are, cooking together, flour on their faces, in the antique store laughing and showing each other some tchotchke or other, eating ice cream at the beach, dabbing some on each other’s noses. She’d felt that they were closer than they had ever been. He was happy to be at home all day, writing full time. He felt validated by the success of the first book and by the large advance for the second. He felt like a provider and that mattered to him. They had the new apartment, more space, real grown up furniture, savings and pension plans. Financial security made him feel at ease with himself, free to be silly and funny. They were adulting pretty hard too. They argued sometimes because they were both stubborn, maybe even a little opinionated, but the make up sex was amazing and she thought, even when they were fighting, that he seemed secure in the understanding that they would work out whatever had sparked the disagreement. Then, out of nowhere, he was pissy and sarcastic, self deprecating in the old way that she’d hoped they’d left behind. She also realised that he’d been going to the gym. She didn’t know exactly when that had started but there were sweaty gym clothes in the laundry hamper and text exchanges with Archie about morning workouts and good proteins. It made her wonder who the pod person was and what the hell he’d done with her boyfriend.

She considered talking to Veronica about it but she could hear herself complaining that he was testy and snappy with her and had started to work out a lot. Those pieces of evidence were unambiguous. Either he was screwing around or he was about to. But it was Jughead-- her Jughead. She knew his character better than she knew her own. He would never… But how many deluded women had said that? Michelle Williams thinking her cowboy was kinda off since he came back from his boys’ camping trip, Anne Archer asking Michael Douglas if he’d seen the bunny rabbit anywhere, Norah Ephron or Meryl Streep or whoever it was in Heartburn, smart and funny and wonderful, being betrayed by sleazy, ungrateful Jack Nicholson. All those devoted women thinking it could never happen to them and then abandoned, humiliated, blindsided by treachery.

Clearly she was starting to spiral. She told herself sternly that gym shorts and a bad temper didn’t prove anything at all. There should be a presumption of innocence despite the prima facie evidence. She knew by now that when they hit a tricky spot in their journey they had to sit together and get to the bottom of it. It wasn’t a failure, it was a tune up of a relationship that was well worth regular maintenance. She’d just ask him what was up. And she would definitely not accuse him of anything. That would be a lose-lose situation. Either she’d be wrong and he’d be horrified that she could be so untrusting or she’d be right. She really didn’t want to be right. A better plan would be to remind him why he loved her before asking him if he had another girl. Make sure the waters were shallow and not shark infested before rocking the boat.

On the way home from work she called him to ask what was for dinner. He’d taught himself to cook from YouTube videos and seemed to enjoy it. Since he was at home all day and she was often at the office until eight it made sense for him to be their chef. He told her they were having lemon sole with salsa verde and steamed veggies and she said she’d get a bottle of wine and bring pastries for dessert. He said that he had a cardio session booked for eight a.m. so he’d rather go easy on the carbs. She managed to hang up the call before leaning back against the chiller cabinet in the grocery store and letting the tears flow down her cheeks like a desperate housewife. He’d either been swapped with some sort of bro doppelgänger or he was going to leave her for some twenty two year old author groupie with a huge backside and no boobs. 

She dried her eyes and bought a bottle of good Sancerre and a selection of exotic fruit for dessert. She wouldn’t give him up without a bloody and remorseless fight. She named the faceless, boobless groupie Sasha and mentally cautioned her that she would have to rip her man from her cold dead hands. He loved her. He’d just forgotten for a moment. She’d remind him, she’d make him shake and moan and beg for her. She’d show him no mercy and he would be entirely hers and glad of it. She had a mission.

When she stepped through the door the apartment smelled of garlic and basil and she breathed it in deeply. She found him in the kitchen, making the salsa verde, the fish waiting to be pan fried, vegetables prepared for the steamer. He was in his usual writing attire, sweatpants low on his hips, bare feet, an untucked t shirt. She might hate and fear what the gym meant but she liked what it achieved. He was lithe and muscular, smooth skin over lean limbs, his shoulders broader that they had been, his belly harder. She ran a hand over his chest and across his stomach, dipping her little finger just quarter of an inch into the waistband of the sweatpants. He glanced at her, a little surprised but not displeased. “You’re very beautiful this evening,” she whispered and he chuckled. 

“You’re always beautiful,” he replied. She shrugged off her suit jacket and threw it towards a stool. She kissed his neck in the way that meant that she wanted him and wasn’t keen to wait. “Really?” he murmured. “Before dinner?”

“An amuse bouche,” she sighed and licked her lips. His laugh was breathless and gravelly and he stepped closer, pinning her against the refrigerator. His hands were under her thighs and he lifted her up against himself, supporting her weight easily. Maybe the gym really wasn’t such a bad use of his time. Ready, kissing her hard, he turned them around, his lips against her hair, moaning softly. He carried her towards the bedroom, her feet hooked around his hips, her fingers gripping his shoulders tightly. She wouldn’t let him get away.

“Well I don’t know what’s got you so worked up Betts, but I’m not mad about it. Not mad at all.” His words vibrated against her neck as he kissed down to her shoulder.

“My boyfriend is the hottest man I’ve ever seen. How is a red blooded woman supposed to resist you?” They were in the bedroom at last and he raised an eyebrow and received her subtle nod of assent before lowering her onto the bed and surging over her. His strong fingers were in her hair, pulling out the barrette and combing out the strands to lie across the pillows. Then he was working at the buttons of her blouse his hand on her breast as soon as he had opened it far enough to gain access. She reached out to stroke her fingertips down his throat and he arched his neck to enjoy the sensation before lowering his head to kiss her breast along the lace of her bra. It felt so good that she almost forgot her mission but she struggled back to herself and writhed out from under him. He raised a quizzical eyebrow as she smiled and pushed his shoulder to encourage him to lie back against the pillows. “I want to make love to you, to show you how much I care for you, how special you are. Lie back. Let me.” He smiled softly and lay back. It looked like love and trust but how could she be sure? Maybe Sasha had seen that same expression and thought it meant love too. 

She refocused on him. She was going to be so good to him that he’d never want to leave their bed. She’d show him that she could love him so much better than any other girl could. She grasped the edge of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head, disarranging the curls in a way that made her breathless with desire. She stood to step out of her shoes and then, with a sly look, took off her pants and turned her back to him. He liked to unfasten her bra so she sat on the bed so he could reach her easily and he obliged, kissing her back and making her shiver. She moved astride his thighs and teased at his sweatpants, pulling them down inch by agonising inch, dragging his boxers with them, leaning in to kiss his belly and hips as she did so, making him whine and thrust a little in his eagerness. Eventually he could kick off the irritating garments and she looked into his eyes, their blue, pacific depths making her suck in her breath as she realised again how much she loved him. Finally she took him into her mouth and his low curses and moans surged into her, making her writhe against his legs, searching for some relief in her own arousal. She took him deeply, using her tongue against him, her hand moving in concert with her lips. Sometimes she would release him to look up at him, she knew how he liked that, for her to look up, her lips wet, her hair disarranged and then to return her mouth to him as if she were desperate to devour him. He was gripping at the sheets now, his knuckles white with the pressure. He thrust against her, unable to restrain his movements and then he was calling out and pulsing and coming and cursing all at once. She looked up at him, smiling demurely and then licking her lips. “Oh Betts. I have no idea what I did to deserve that but if you could let me know I’ll be sure to do it all the time. Was it the sole? I can learn myriad ways to cook a sole,” he muttered.

“Oh, I suppose I thought maybe you’d been a little bit out of sorts lately. I wanted to make you happy. I know how to make you happy, don’t I?” she smiled. She had surely made her point.

“Everything about you makes me happy Betts. I’m sorry I was cranky. I was just a little…disappointed…I guess. About you being away again next week. Sorry. Selfish.” She looked at him, surprised. He was normally perfectly content for her to travel for work. She was careful that it was only ever three or four days a month and that she had a long weekend to spend with him afterwards. He usually liked having time to get really into the writing for a few days, immersing himself in the world he was creating. It made no sense that he would have been upset about this particular work trip. He must have been making up an excuse. Still she could run with that. And maybe he wanted to get away, perhaps that had been what he was hinting.

“Well I could take a few days off after I get back. I’ll have taken all the depositions so there isn’t anything too pressing until we go to trial. Why don’t we take a trip for a couple of days? We could go and see JB or your dad if you want or just stay a few nights in some cosy little country B&B somewhere all alone.”

“Really?” he asked, seeming excited by the prospect. “Are you sure? No last minute cancellations? I should book it? Right after you get back?”

“Sure, go ahead. It’ll be romantic. Surprise me,” she smiled. Had it worked? Had she won him back with a BJ and a mini break? Could it be so easy?

“And that’s what you’d like? A country B&B? Not, I don’t know, a weekend in Paris or a trip to our nation’s capital to look at the Lincoln Memorial or something?” His enthusiasm was a little weird but he could be weird, she was used to that.

“God no. You, me, log fires, hygge or whatever it’s called. Baked goods and cosy blankets and lots of sex and hot chocolate. Or lots of hot sex and chocolate. Whichever.”

“I’m going to organise it right after I attend to some matters here,” he began to run his fingers against the lace of her underwear, “and then cook dinner. Thanks Betts. I’m excited. It’s just what I needed to hear.”

He made sure that his bedroom duties were attended to in a most thorough and exhaustive manner and then headed back to the kitchen to his culinary tasks. She pulled on sweatpants, her bunny slippers and an old Riverdale Vixens hoodie, soft and threadbare from hundreds of washes. His phone was on the counter, playing an eighties playlist through the speaker. His new novel had two settings, one contemporary and the other in the late eighties so he was immersing himself in the culture. She put the Sancerre in the refrigerator and leaned against the counter, watching him as he moved about the kitchen, grinning at her over his shoulder when he felt her eyes on him. It felt great, relaxed and domestic, everything was going to be fine. They ate the sole, drank a glass of wine each, laughed and chatted. It was good again. He’d apologised for being grouchy. She didn’t need to ruin a perfectly lovely evening by mentioning Sasha. Maybe she’d never have to. It could be unspoken, like the final scene of Brief Encounter where the husband knows but chooses not to make a scene. "Thank you for coming back to me,"he says with this affectionate quiet dignity. Perhaps she could leave it at that too. She gathered up the plates and moved into the kitchen to clean up.

Then, with horrible timing, just as she had resolved to let the prosecution rest and do nothing about the adulterous elephant in the room, from the eighties playlist Sting began to sing “Free free, set them free/ Free free, set them free/ Free free, set them free/Free free, set them free,” driving a splinter of ice into her heart. She clenched her fists and decided that another glass of wine wouldn’t hurt. “If you love somebody/ If you love someone set them free/ Free, free, set them free.” She did love him she screamed at Sting inside her head. She only wanted him to be happy. Sasha couldn’t do that. Betty knew him, understood what he needed. He’d never be so relaxed and happy with Sasha as he was at this moment in their apartment that they loved and had chosen together. Fuck Sasha. And fuck Sting. She turned back to the counter to forward past the track but as she did so she saw a notification on his screen. "Reservation Feb 13- Feb 15 Honeymoon Suite, Thunder Bay Hotel.” Her heart thumped so hard she didn’t think she’d be able to draw a breath. While she was away for work he was taking Sasha to a hotel, to the goddamn honeymoon suite. The plate that she had been wiping dropped from her limp fingers and smashed on the floor sending shards everywhere as she burst into huge convulsing sobs. He was at the door in a moment but she shooed him away, “No, get back Jug. Bare feet. Glass on the floor. Let me deal with it. I dropped the fucking thing. No, seriously, get out of here before I’m mopping up blood too.” He slouched off, down the hallway, mumbling something about fetching the vacuum cleaner. 

She began to sweep up the shards, wondering if they had some newspaper to wrap them to go into the trash. Her mind was whirling. She had told him about needing to go away less than a week ago. He’d been irritable but, simultaneously, he must have been asking his side piece if she wanted to go on a romantic break. Did she even know he wasn’t single? And how could she take off midweek to do the do with another woman’s goddamn husband. And where the hell was Thunder Bay? Then with another thud she realised the significance of the date. Mr “Valentines' Day is a capitalist ploy to convince the working stiffs that even the most fundamental human connections have to be monetised to be valid,” Mr “Let’s celebrate us every other day of the year and stay home on the 14th just to stick it to the man,” was taking Sasha with the good hair to some sex palace on fucking Valentines like a parody love rat. She thought she might have a panic attack. She slid her back down the refrigerator and sat on the floor, staring at the tile, mourning in silence.

He’d been feeling guilty all day. All week really. He knew he was being an asshole but he didn’t seem to be able to stop. He felt like the character note by his name in the script was "this jerk." He was curt with her, not engaging her in conversation about her day, not telling her about the book. It wasn’t her fault. He was the one who was keeping secrets. Everything had just gotten out of hand.

If anyone was to blame it was Veronica. She was the dame in the picture hat in the opening scene, causing chaos. If it hadn’t been for her it would have been a done deal by now but she had rattled him, put him off his stride. He’d gone to her for advice about jewellery and, as if he’d invited a vampire in for a cup of tea and then been startled to find it draining his lifeblood, she had simply taken over every aspect of his proposal.

He'd cleverly discovered some months ago that Betty didn’t really like diamonds. “Too cold, too hard, too ostentatious, way too ubiquitous” had been her judgement when he made up some fantasy about a girl at the publishers showing everyone her engagement ring. Then, of course, it would have been far too obvious to ask for alternatives so he had simply nodded and filed away that piece of information. He’d wandered through jewellery stores aimlessly, harassed by store clerks who found his sartorial choices less than promising in a prospective client, he’d googled without any idea of what he was looking at, he’d considered emeralds and thought of saying something cheesy like, “To match your eyes,” but they didn’t. They were entirely the wrong shade. It would be like he was proposing to a woman who he’d never looked at, when actually her eyes were the first and last thing he saw every single day, in his head if not in person. So eventually, feeling himself beginning to seize up with indecision, he had asked Veronica to go for a drink with him after she got off work one evening. There was a surprised silence on the end of the line when he asked. They were cordial, they drove each other crazy sometimes but they enjoyed each other’s sense of humour when they all went out together. They did not, however, meet up “a deux” as Veronica would say. They just never had. Then she squealed at an ear piercing intensity and giggled like a crazy woman as she realised what his invitation must mean. “Oh Torombolo of course. Proposal planning is my favourite thing in the world. At last!”

Veronica chose an overpriced and intimidating Japanese coffee place in SoHo where the barista wanted him to actually make decisions about bean type and roast and then watch while he made some kind of performance art with a chemistry set. Veronica smiled widely as she joined him ten minutes later with a noxious green concoction in a tall glass. “Isn’t this so much better than a bar? So well lit to look at all these,” as she pulled a stack of glossy wedding magazines from her capacious purse. 

“Well usually I like my coffee…”

“Oh please, dark, bitter, cheap, bottomless like your soul or the void into which you look long or your heart. Move on Jughead, the nineties have left without you.” He couldn’t help the smile which twitched the corners of his mouth so he remained silent and took a swig of the coffee, which annoyingly was pretty great. Veronica put her hand on his arm excitedly. “Now Jughead darling, I’m happy you called. You would have made such a mess of it on your own. Now I can make sure our best girl gets the proposal a young woman dreams of. Well done you for knowing your limitations.”

“I was just going to ask about rings Veronica. She won’t want some huge embarrassing flashmob in Grand Central Terminus. She’d hate that. I’m just going to ask her. Low key. At home.”

“Oh right. What before work? While she’s brushing her teeth? That way you could yell it through the bathroom door. That’s certainly what girls hope for.” Apparently she was attempting to best the master in sarcasm.

“No, I thought I’d ask while I’m cleaning her hair out of the shower drain and she’s putting one of those weird paper things on her face, wearing sweats and socks. Of course not. I’d probably ask her on a Saturday morning. That way she can have her hair… whatevered… and we could go somewhere nice for dinner to celebrate.”

“So you’d ask her and give her the ring and then she’d just, what, go and do the laundry?”

“Well, not immediately I’d hope.” Jug stared sulkily at the table in front of him.

“Well what a gentleman. You’ll ask her in bed, hope to get some sugar in return and then send her off to the grocery store while you vacuum the apartment like every weekend, then she gets to go to the salon alone before you take her somewhere to watch you eat a whole cow. Sounds great. What’s not to love?”

Now she said it like that, it did seem inadequate. Not quite The Notebook or When Harry Met Sally. He could say ‘I want you. I want all of you, forever. You and me, every day,’ and really fucking mean it but maybe he needed to show her how true it was. She was more about actions than words, always. “OK tell me then. What’s important?”

“Well I agree that public proposals are coercive, toxic and performative. And tacky. So no flashmob required. But she should be able to have a cute picture of the ring somewhere beautiful to make your announcement. You should spend the day together away from domestic chores. It ought to be special. Something you’ll both look back on as a lovely memory. She ought to know that you’ve planned it, thought about it, and no — making reservations doesn’t count.”

Veronica suggested Paris, Venice, Rome. Jug said he wasn’t planning to drag Betty half way around the world for a couple of days and an instagram post. They could go to those places on honeymoon and explore them properly. He rejected California wineries (too far given that they generally only drank a glass each), the Grand Canyon (just, why? Here’s a hole in the ground, marry me?), the National Mall on the Fourth of July when the fireworks start (crowded, public, too long to wait, "when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible") and a hot air balloon (not a fan of heights). As he shook his head at all of these ideas a thought was beginning to percolate. “Hold on Veronica. I might have an idea. I need to do some research though. But it’s good I promise. Now, rings.”

Veronica was shocked by Betty’s heretical rejection of diamonds but when he started to hem and haw, blushing furiously and then saying, “Her eyes,” she got the idea instantly.

“Yes! Genius. What you need is a beautiful teal sapphire. Here, look.” Within seconds she was showing him her phone screen, full of images of perfect stones. 

He grinned, relieved. “Yeah, that’s it. But how do we get from that to a ring?”

“Leave it to me. I know a guy. Annual income?” He was shocked to discover there was a formula for how much he was obliged to spend. It struck him as ridiculous. He’d pay what it cost for the right ring, he wasn’t going to scrimp but still he wasn’t about to overpay and end up with some ostentatious bling that she’d hate. He refused to countenance playing a capitalist numbers game. Veronica then asked sensible questions about sizes that he couldn’t answer and she told him to leave it to her. “I’ll work it out. I'm your fairy godmother, never forget it.”

So, right now, in his bedside drawer was the most expensive thing he had ever purchased, a beautiful stone exactly the green of her eyes in an elegant yellow gold setting. It was simple and classic and he was proud to have bought it for her. He was also impatient to give it to her but he was keen to do as Veronica said and do it properly.

When she was out of town he stopped by her office and spoke with her boss, Josh. He was embarrassed to be declaring his romantic aspirations to this near stranger but it had to be done so he swallowed his pride and his reticence and got on with it. He explained that he wanted to take Betty away for a couple of days as a surprise, asked if he could book some holiday time for her. Josh said he could but he needed to choose days when she didn't have anything booked in her calendar. He pulled up the shared schedule and found a couple of days, looking pleased with himself. "We won't book it as holiday or she'll know. Just take the days as my engagement gift," Josh said with a grin even though Jug hadn't told him the purpose of the trip. It wasn't until he got home that he realised the significance of the date. Josh had probably thought he was helping with some second rate romcom plot line by picking Valentine's day so it would have been churlish to refuse after it had been settled. 

He booked the hotel, even securing the honeymoon suite. He worried that was too much but then he asked himself if anything could ever be too much for Betty Cooper. The answer was "Obviously not." He selected flights to Michigan and Veronica volunteered her driver to take them to JFK in style. He started to work out at the gym, not really expecting to find a six pack in just a few weeks but wanting to please her as much as he could, to be the hero in the movie just for once. He enlisted Veronica to help him pick out clothes for him and a dress for Betty. He became more and more nervous, anxiously counting down the days, trying to limit his conversations with Betty so he didn't give himself away. Then, a week before D day, she came home from work, exhausted and stressed, and told him the trial dates for her first big case as lead attorney had changed and she needed to go out of town for a couple of days. She laughed when she said it was a good thing that they didn't celebrate Valentine's day or it would have been disappointing to cancel their plans.

He tried to rationalise his way out of his sadness. It didn't matter when the proposal happened. It didn't even really matter if they didn't get married at all. He was hers, he always had been, and he had finally begun to understand that, inexplicably, she was his. When she looked at him he could see in those teal sapphire eyes that she loved him without reservation. But still it did matter. He wanted to be married to her, to be a family with a shared name. He wanted to introduce himself to people as her husband, to let them know that she had chosen him. He wanted to be her protector, her safe place in a troubled world. He wanted to make a declaration that she was everything that he would ever need and that he would do his very best to be enough for her. Forever. So he had been despondent and she had noticed which was why she had brought wine and fruit and made love to him and assured him of her devotion. And now, as he brought the vacuum cleaner back to the kitchen, she was crying on the floor amongst the broken crockery and he had no fucking clue why. INTERIOR NIGHTTIME Completely clueless.

He abandoned the vacuum and stood in the doorway aghast. He straightened his shoulders in a gesture that he seemed to have picked up from her and held out a hand. "Betty, I want you to come here please, right now." She began to pick up bits of china and he let his voice become a little firmer, "No, Betts, right now. Please. This is more important than a fucking plate. You come here or I'm coming to you and, if I have to walk barefoot over broken glass to do it, you know I will."

She looked up, tears streaming down her face. He stared her down. She stood meekly and crunched across the kitchen in the ridiculous fucking bunny slippers. “Right, you’re doing it again. You’re trying to fix something without talking to me about it. I’m not a fucking mind reader Betts. The blow job was amazing but it wasn’t a discussion. So we’re going to have a conversation about this right now. Ok?”

She nodded and followed him as he took her hand and sat her down on the couch. “Talk to me Betts.”

“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I don’t want you to be mad and I don’t want you to leave me.”

“What the fuck?” He stared at her, bewildered. “Betts, if you’re about to tell me you’ve murdered someone or lost a million dollars on a horse I might yell a bit but then we’ll deal with it. I would never… how could you think I’d leave you?”

“I know about the hotel.” 

Now he was completely confused. “Ok well you would have known sooner or later anyway. I should have just told you but Veronica said it would be better to keep it as a surprise.”

“V knows?” She began to sob now. Then she looked up in absolute horror. “Oh my god Jug, are you and V sleeping together?”

He stared at her as if she had unpeeled her skin to reveal that she was an alien lizard creature instead of his Betts. “What the actual fuck is going on on your head? Have you got a headache? I think we need to get you to a doctor. Are you seeing things? Hearing voices? How long have you been feeling confused?” He rested the back of his hand against her forehead.

“Why are you taking Veronica to the honeymoon suite in some hotel? If you aren’t having an affair?”

“I’m not. I’m taking you. To propose.” 

She looked up, staring into his concerned eyes, the pieces of the narrative beginning to fall into place. “The gym…”

He blushed. “I wanted to look…nice I suppose. In the apartment all day, writing, grazing, I was getting soft. I didn’t want you to be disappointed when you looked at pictures of our engagement. So I went to the gym. Why’s that a problem?”

“I thought you wanted someone else, had met someone else.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Betts, I just can’t get a handle on this. You thought I was having an affair so you came home and gave me a blow job. I’m having trouble understanding what the fuck is going on.”

She took a shaking breath. It was all coming out now anyway. She’d been wrong and she’d have to own the whole mess. “You were off, sort of snippy. You’d been working out. I thought that you were bored with me or you’d met someone so I was trying to fight for you, show you what you’d be missing I guess. I’m sorry Jug.”

“Fuuuck,” he whispered, tears springing up in his eyes. “You really fucking love me don’t you?” He gave a soft chuckle. “Ok, I’m not having an affair and certainly not with Veronica. Not in any of the multiverses. That would be a logical impossibility. I wanted to propose to you. I asked your BFF’s advice. She said “Make it special Torombolo,” So I booked the hotel from “Anatomy of a Murder” because it’s your favourite, and because the Overlook would be creepy. I got you the time off with Josh, got everything ready, and then, last week, the week before the big day, you said you had to go out of town so I was upset. Disappointed. But it’s ok because while you were smashing our crockery I changed the reservation. So it’s all good. Except you think there is a world where Jughead Jones would cheat on Betty Cooper. So that’s an issue.”

She was looking at him with a shamefaced expression. “I should have asked why you were going to the gym.”

“Yeah, and I should have gone with my first instinct to just ask you here instead of making it a huge deal and keeping a secret from you. It’s really not us, is it?” She shook her head. “Ok, wait here a sec.” He disappeared into the bedroom, returning a second later and taking a knee in front of her. “Betty Cooper, I love you to distraction. You are certifiably crazy, you’re untidy, you catastrophize like no-one else in the world, you’re beautiful, you smell like daisies and cut grass all the goddamn time, you’d rather carry out some crazy scheme that just tell me what’s on your mind, you alphabetise the books to keep me from going insane, you’re the smartest and the dumbest person I’ve ever met and I will never, never want anyone else. Please will you marry me?” He produced a small jewellery box from behind his back and opened it before offering it to her.

When she peeked inside she gasped, looking up at him with joy and excitement in her eyes. “Yes, Jug. Yes, I will. This is so beautiful. Wait, I want to say something. Words right? I love you too. I always have. I love that you have no idea how attractive you are and feel like I’d want you more if you went to the gym. I mean I don’t hate it but I love you and want you so much anyway that sometimes I get breathless thinking about you. I love that you always want to do everything by the book even though sometimes its the dumbest way to do things. I love that you make the bed with hospital corners. I love how you know just how to turn me on, like with the way you push your hair out of your eyes and watch me as you do it because it makes me crazy. I love that you always smell of pine for no reason at all. I love that you sold your bike to pay my tuition that time and that you always paid the extra for the guac for me. I love everything about you and I do want to marry you, so much.” 

He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and took the ring from the box and slid it gently onto her finger. “You’re my fiancée Betty Cooper,” he whispered and she smiled at him and kissed his neck. “Ok, insatiable. But I have to sweep up that plate first. It’s yelling at me from in there. Get in the bedroom and take off your clothes. Oh no, actually wait a sec. He grabbed his phone and stood next to her, “Ring Betts.” She held out her hand and he snapped the picture. He showed her the photograph, her hair in a messy bun, both of them in sweats, both smiling as wide as possible, both of them with eyes red from crying. It was a good memory, two people working shit out even though they were both crazy half the time. He sent it to Veronica without comment and went to sweep up the kitchen.


End file.
